


hurtin' for your smile

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: dropofrum sampler [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Blanket Permission, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, House Stark has Fallen, Mildly Dubious Consent, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: Sansa, of the Fallen House of Stark, is the most celebrated whore of King's Landing. And on his sixteenth nameday, Jon Snow, the bastard prince of Westeros, pays her a visit.





	1. drop me down to the dream below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is unbeta'd. Errors, if any, are my own.

_Come hither; I will shew unto thee_  
_the judgment of the great whore_  
_that sitteth upon many waters:_

_With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication,  
__and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk  
__with the wine of her fornication._  

 

_\- Revelations 17:1-2_

 

* * *

 

_"Acting like I'm heartless_  
_I do it all the time  
__But that don't mean I'm scarless  
__That don't mean I'm fine."_  

_\- Bishop Briggs, "Dark Side"_

 

* * *

 

She's beautiful. 

Jon should have expected that, he supposes; the whores of the world didn't get by on their wits - and there's a tasteless pun about tits somewhere in there that he's trying to avoid - but she's-

They call her Lady Sansa, even now, even though her noble family is dead and gone, merely ash that settles heavily on the stones where Winterfell's keep once stood proud. His mother's home. And she _is_ a lady, he thinks dazedly, as she walks up to him, in a gown so fine and pale, it does nothing to hide the long, lush curves of her body. 

 

* * *

 

The air is heavy with the scents of myrrh and frankincense, burning almost constantly to ward off the foul stench of the air in King's Landing. The brothel is close to the sea, fresh, cold winds blowing through the room, the light, fragile curtains billowing in the breeze. 

Sansa chose her gown carefully, for tonight. A peach silk, made of a single uncut bolt of fabric, held by a gold clip at her shoulder, cinched at the waist in a slim, gold belt. She had seen herself in the looking glass, the dress like blush over her skin, hair a deep blood red in the moonlight, mouth stained crimson with wine. Sansa Stark had rarely ever looked better. 

There is precious little to be known about the bastard prince of the Red Keep - that he is kind, yes, that he is well-loved by the smallfolk of the capital; never too proud to drink at a Fleabottom tavern or defend a woman's honour. That he keeps the Old Gods in the way of his dead mother; that he is rarely present at court. 

That he is the most formidable fighter the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. That he never rides in a tourney. 

That he makes the young new King nervous.

But these are only whispers, only things boasted about by foolish young men who pretend they know the prince, who pretend they are his closest confidante. 

The one thing, the only thing Sansa knows with absolute certainty is that Jon Snow, for all that he is a royal bastard, doesn't fuck whores. Lately, as he has grown older, she and Arya have often wondered if it isn't his manservant he prefers, a young, beautiful boy who is known to all simply as the Raven. 

It makes her wonder, pinching at her anxiously, what he wants from her. 

When he enters her room, knocking respectfully at first, it takes all her years' of experience not to gape at him, at the thin, dark cotton tunic he wears, open at the neck, and tucked into tight breeches, a simple cloak clasped at the shoulder, a sword-belt cinched loosely at his hip. 

She expected his kind eyes, somehow. 

She didn't expected him to be quite so- _handsome_. 

 

* * *

 

"Your grace," the Lady Sansa says, dipping into a curtsey so perfectly executed they couldn't have found fault with it in any great Hall throughout the Seven Kingdoms. 

He didn't expect many things about tonight, it seems. He especially didn't expect to meet a lady. 

"Won't you have a drink?" she asks smoothly, when he says nothing, pouring herself a generous cup of Dornish red. 

"No," he bites off shortly, searching her features for the impression of her Stark heritage. But there isn't any - with her fiery hair and bright blue eyes, she looks like a Southron princess of old, her skin so fine and clear, Jon has to curl his hands into fists to hold himself back from touching her. 

Lady Sansa smiles curiously at him. 

"The wine isn't poisoned, Your Grace," she points out softly. There is something about her voice, like velvet layered over steel, that makes him stand a little taller, as if he's being watched, being judged. "Don't you trust me?"

Jon watches her watch him, and feels something hot, molten, stir in his belly. "I don't trust myself."

 

* * *

 

Sansa has fucked royalty before. 

It is what keeps her exclusive - the men she fucks, the women she pleasures. 

_The Lady Sansa only lays with those worthy of her noble cunt,_ a man had once drawled in her ear, when she had still been young, still not quite as established, wrenching her off her horse and into his lap, ripping away her gown and pawing harshly at her newly budded breasts. 

From behind him, stealthy as a cat, Arya had slid a knife between his ribs. He died spluttering blood into Sansa's hair. 

 

* * *

 

But this Jon Snow, he's not like the any of the royalty she's ever known. 

There's something almost predatory about the way he moves, as if he's lying in wait, patiently watching his prey. She shivers a little, and realizes her nipples have hardened under her gown, pressing up against the silk in stains of pink. 

When his breath catches and gaze darts downward, before tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword until his knuckles flare white - Sansa feels just a little bit victorious. 

If she wants him, she'll damn well be wanted back too, whore or not. 

* * *

 

He walks to the window, at the far end of the room, where the sea breeze is the strongest, tossing the airy curtains like agitated sails. It's as if he wants to put space between them, to bank the tension that has grown in seconds. 

Silhouetted against the moonlight, his cloak billowing around him, dark curls tossed and wind-blown, he looks like something out of a song. Not like a hero, not him - with his dark eyes, and the silent, dangerous grace of his walk. No, this Jon Snow looks like he could very easily be a villain. A beautiful, deadly villain.

Sansa drinks her wine deeply, draining the cup, and pours herself another. Her hands are shaking, she realizes, as she imagines what he looks like naked. 

"My lady," he finally says, never turning around to look at her. "I don't require your services. But there is something I'd like to talk to you about. Someone I think you ought to meet."

Sansa frowns at her cup. 

"Oh?" she asks mildly, walking up to him, and standing by his side. The wind catches her hair, streaming it away from her face, a scarlet banner for a Targaryen prince. She turns to him, watches his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the blade of her nose, his finely molded lips. Finally, he turns to her, and she smiles, relishing it, basking in satisfaction. 

She walks until they are inches apart, a goblet of wine in one hand, the other rising up to trace the hollow at the bottom of his throat. She rises up on her toes to kiss the skin revealed there, her tongue darting out to lick his skin. He tastes like salt, and faintly, like honey. The taste of him disappears in her mouth, dissolving like spun sugar. She wonders how he’d taste if she tugged off his leather breeches, if she knelt at his feet.

He cups his hand around the back of her neck and tugs her away, but Jon Snow is no saint. His eyes are drowning in black. 

_He wants her._

"I mean it. I do _not_ want your services. There is someone-"

"Hush," she murmurs, and loops her arms around his neck, dragging her body along his. He's hard under his breeches, and he talks about ' _not needing her services_ '? Bloody, uppity lordlings. He  _wants_ her. He's going to give in, tonight. He's going to lie with a whore, and prove himself as base and easy manipulated as any man she has ever encountered. 

She presses herself against him, the soft give of her stomach cradling his erection, letting her lips fall open. When his hands grab her hips, surging against her, knocking the wineglass from her hand, she whimpers. His skin is hotter than fire.

She gasps soundlessly, at the way his breath falls rapidly against her cheek, the sudden violence in his eyes. 

" _Don't_ ," he snarls at her, viciously. 

Sansa smiles back, her eyes hooded with desire, a trickle of wetness seeping along her thigh. "Then let me go," she dares, blue eyes glittering with fire.

He doesn't.

 

* * *

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I'm concerned, no archive warnings apply. If you disagree, please let me know what you think needs to be included.  
> Work title and opening lyrics from Bishop Briggs' "Dark Side."  
> Chapter title from Linkin Park's "Castle of Glass."  
> Opening quote from the King James' Version bible.  
> Series title from "Winds of Winter," HBO.
> 
> And thanks for reading!


	2. we love until we bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Was this what Stark women did to Targaryen men? Make them lose their minds?_
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is unbeta'd. Errors, if any, are my own. Warnings are included in end notes.

 

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine._

_\- Song of Solomon, 1:2_

* * *

 

_I want your love, I want your disease  
_ _I want you open-mouthed, and down on your knees  
_ _I want your love._

 

* * *

He takes a deep, shaky breath, his eyes falling closed. He’s young, Sansa realizes with a faint little shock of pleasure.

He carries himself like a man, self-assurance and quiet confidence in his every moment, but this Jon Snow is barely older than her own fifteen name days. 

His hair falls over his forehead, wildly disarrayed, as if someone has run their hands through those inky, blue-black locks. Are they as soft as they look?

“We cannot, my lady,” he says, and with their bodies pressed so closely together, his voice rumbles through her, making her sigh noiselessly, making her knees tremble. “I swore a vow."

Maybe it is the wine, going to her head. Maybe it is the night air, cold and salty, that clouds her judgement. Maybe it’s him, with his dark, pleading eyes, and the weight of his arms that never release her, the burning warmth of him that bleeds through the layers of fabric between them.

But she gives into temptation - she, the mistress of temptation herself, the woman who has wound kings and lords and princesses around her littlest finger. She smiles at him, a melting confection of a smile, and cards her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, raking her nails along delicate skin. 

He shivers, as she whispers, “Vows are made to be broken, your grace,” tracing the soft shell of his ear with her tongue, savouring the way his breath stutters, the way his pulse beats quicker in his neck. Men are made to be broken too. 

“Not this vow, my lady. This vow I swore to my king."

* * *

 

_I want your drama_  
_The touch of your hand  
_ _I want you leather-choked, and cuffed to my bed  
_ _And I want your love._

 

* * *

Jon had anticipated a hardened girl; a noble child forced into prostitution at the age of twelve to feed herself, a child who had auctioned her own virginity for the ungodly sum of a hundred dragons. 

He had never seen her coming, never imagined this - a willful woman-child of such startling beauty, a heart-breaking little seductress. Was this what Stark women did to Targaryen men? Make them lose their minds?

She draws back from him then, just enough to look into his eyes. 

"Especially a vow to a king," she murmurs, almost to herself. A strange glint appears in her eyes, and even in his daze, Jon knows enough to tense himself. He has held himself back for this long, but gods-

He isn’t- He doesn’t know that he is strong enough to withstand her. 

Her hands drift away from him, and he’s possessed with the mad urge to drag her back to him. _Touch me,_ he wants to plead. _I’ve known anything quite like being touched by you._

But her gaze is like fire, holding him still, tensing his fingers around the voluptuous curves of her hips, the hard, golden belt around her waist digging into the meat of his palms. Her long, slim fingers drift to the clasp at her shoulder. It opens with a snick! of metal against metal, just as Jon inhales painfully, hand snapping up to hold the fabric together.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls. 

Her eyes cloud over, a bare ankle caressing the back of his calf, her soft, cool hands drifting past the neck of his tunic, nails drawing lines of heat restlessly across his shoulder.

“Making you want me,” she murmurs, voice a little hoarse, like he’s been making her scream for him. _Gods_ , he thinks deliriously, _would she scream for him? Would she ride his cock, and kiss his mouth, and beg for him to make her come? Would she- gods, no, no._

He groans, forehead dropping to hers, hips surging against her stomach, pulling her against him with a powerful hand at the small of her back. “Gods above, my lady. I already want you. Don’t- don’t-"

“Call me Sansa,” she murmurs, the devil laughing at him from behind her blue eyes.

“Sansa,” he says, the syllables like silk on his tongue. “Sansa,” he whispers in the air between them, electric and sweet.

“Jon,” she sighs. And he groans, with a strangled, aborted thrust of his hips. How does she make it sound so good? He lets go of the opened clasp, watches the fabric slither apart, draping over the belted waist, her breasts ripe and high, tipped with nipples of a deep, flushed pink. A great roaring fills his ears, the scent of sweet wine and salty air and Sansa filling his mouth with luxurious abandon.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, guilt turning foully in the pit of his stomach. " _Please_ , I just-"

" _Yes,_ " she begs, arching in his arms, rising to her toes, hair brushing his arms in a silky slide. "Jon, _yes._ "

He kisses her.

* * *

 

_I want your psycho, your vertigo kiss_  
_I want you in my bed  
_ _(I'll make you sick)  
_ _I want your love._

 

* * *

 

Her gown rips when he pushes her away. 

"Stop!" he roars, eyes slitted, chest heaving. 

She snarls wordlessly, striding back to him, dragging his mouth down to hers, burying her nails in his neck.  
She _will_ have this. _She will have him._

There is violence in the way she kisses him, grasping hands and voracious mouth, devouring the groans that rumble from his throat. 

His knees buckle under the frenzy of her assault, falling hard to the carpets below, taking her down with him. But she never stops, kissing his mouth so viciously she draws blood. The coppery taste of it swells on her tongue, and she unclasps his cloak, flinging it away, cupping his erection, squeezing ruthlessly until he cries out into her mouth and flinches. 

"Don't you dare," she hisses at him, eyes dark with lust, a fine ring of blue encircling the black. "Don't you dare step away from me."

"Sansa," he whispers, cupping her face in his enormous hands, brushing her hair away. There is blood smeared on her lips. His blood. 

He wipes it away, the calloused pad of his thumb scraping against the softness of her lip, and she shivers so sweetly, it makes something clench in his gut. He presses the digit to the seam of her lips, demanding entry. When her hot tongue darts out to lick it away, copper and ash and honey in her mouth, the shudder that breaks through him vibrates like an earthquake through her. 

He's so young. So young. "We cannot, little one."

Young, and kind, and honorable; a bastard who doesn't lay with whores. _What kind of man is this?_

For he is certainly nothing like anyone she knows. 

* * *

 

_Je veux ton amour  
_ _Et je veux ta revanche  
_ _J'veux ton amour_

 

* * *

 

Her eyes cloud with hurt, and it makes his chest contract painfully. It was the last thing he wanted, when he came here - to hurt this beautiful child, to make her feel anything less than beloved. 

"Is this your oath, that won't let you have me?"

_Have her. Gods, what he wouldn't give this moment-_

"Aye. My loyalty lies with my king."

Sansa inhales sharply, averting his gaze. She steps away from him, turns away. It takes a moment to unlatch the belt, to let it clatter to the floor, and the dress slides down her body, a feathery caress of fine silk, pooling around her ankles. Her long hair she twists over a shoulder. The moonlight casts the dip of her spine in deep, blue shadow. 

She looks at him over a bared shoulder, where he still kneels for her. He is a warrior, her Jon Snow is. But what warrior hasn't fallen for a woman's touch? He will be hers. He will.

"King Aegon has no place in my chambers, Jon Snow."

"Sansa," he breathes, and the heat of his gaze burns like wildfire across her back. "I never said Aegon was the king to whom I swore my vows."

She inhales, shock and lust and fear making a muddle of her senses. This Jon Snow... he is not good for her. 

"That is dangerous talk, Jon," she murmurs, and hears the creak of leather as he rises to his feet. The thump of his sword belt being thrown to the ground. "Treasonous talk."

Her heart beats faster, pounding in her ears, at the base of her throat, a wild, frenzying cascade of blood. Sansa doesn't dare turn to look at him, at this royal, hot-blooded bastard. 

They are so alike, she and him, both born of noble blood, both cast aside from society. Paying with their lives for the sins of their fathers. 

And he is still so... _good._ So unlike her. 

She needs him. Gods help her, she pleads to the Seven, as her hands shake, her clit throbs, her heart aches. 

She needs him past bearing. 

 

 

* * *

 

_I want your fear,_ _I want your desire  
__I want your innocence as long as it's mine  
__I want your love._

 

* * *

Her profession is a hard one, a cruel one. But this is the first time she has feared for her soul. She swallows the sudden lump that gathers heavily in her throat, blinking against the heat behind her eyelids. 

_When he leaves her tonight, who will he leave behind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response on the first chapter took my breath away. Thank you so much for everything, and I do hope this does their story continued justice. There will likely be three more chapters in this story, barring writers' block, which, God help us if that happens.
> 
> Warnings:  
> The story features consensual sexual content between an underage prostitute and her underaged client. Since this AU keeps their heritage intact, this occurs between first cousins.
> 
> If there are any other warnings you think need to be included here, please PM me. Let me know what you think of this instalment, and, as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Opening quote from the Song of Songs, as in the King James Version bible.  
> Chapter title from Lykke Li's 'Until We Bleed.'  
> Quotes adapted from 30 Seconds to Mars' cover of 'Bad Romance,' as performed on BBC Radio 1.  
>  **Blanket Permission:** Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!


	3. give up the fear and run with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is unbeta'd. Errors, if any, are my own. _Please refer end notes for warnings._

 

_MY LIFE is bitter with thy love; thine eyes  
_ _Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs  
_ _Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound._

* * *

 

He sees the shudder travel down her naked body, her skin gilded in the firelight. 

There is something dangerous in the sway of her hips, as she makes her way to her bed. She lies back against the headboard, the long lines of her body smooth and soft and naked for him, the dips and curves of her cast in amber and shadow. He can still taste her, all wine and blood and sweetness. 

One long leg she bends at the knee, the other dangles down the side, her toes barely grazing the stone floor below. She closes her eyes, and her hands rise up to explore her own body. 

"What-," he asks, voice raw and bloody, like flesh that has been drawn and quartered. "What are you doing?"

A hand cups the heavy swell of her breast, fingers rolling the hard little bud of a nipple, the other hand stroking the back of her neck. She sighs, the sound washing away under the crackle of the fireplace, the crash of waves against the shoreline. 

"I swore no oaths," she murmurs, running a hand carelessly through her hair. "I'm free, Jon Snow." She looks at him, a cat's smile curling her lips, her eyes hooded and inviting. Her voice is barely a whisper. 

But Jon hears her. He's helpless to do anything, but watch, but listen, his knuckles turning white when she arches into her own hand, her fingers turning biting and cruel on her body. 

"Join me," she whispers, before her eyes flutter closed. 

Her hands stray downward, and when her long fingers reach her clit, Jon takes a desperate step forward. Her fingers twist her nipple, her back arches off the bed, and her fingers slip knuckle-deep into her own cunt. 

She _keens_. 

* * *

 

_I feel thy blood against my blood: my pain  
_ _Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein._

 

* * *

 

She hears the thud of booted feet against carpet, the soft rustle of fabric on fur. When his hand clamps around her wrist, she nearly sobs. 

_No_ , she wants to beg. _Please, just let me come once-_

But soft, wet heat replaces her fingers, the scrape of teeth on her clit, and she moans his name, burying her nails in his scalp, bucking into his mouth. _Jon, oh gods, Jon pleasepleaseplease-_

He lifts away from her cunt, his mouth gleaming with her wetness, the tip of his nose glinting in the firelight. His hand is still wrapped like a vise around her wrist. He's going to hurt her, she thinks, delirious now, arching her empty cunt to him, pleading with her body. He's going to leave his mark all over her body. 

"Jon," she sobs, shameless. 

"You need to _stop,"_ he snarls at her, fire snapping in his eyes, as he moves up her body. Her abandoned dress is balled up in his hand, and he draws her wrist up to the headboard.

"You need to stop doing this to me." But she feels no fear, not now. Not with him pressing her deeper into the mattress, heat filling all the spaces in her mind. 

She cups her generous breasts, an offering to an angered god. "Kiss me," she whispers, desire running molten through her body, wrapping a long leg around his waist, rubbing her wet cunt against his hard thigh. "Kiss me," she demands, and he shakes almost violently against her, before closing over the hard red nipple, laving it with his tongue, sucking, worrying it between his teeth. 

His other hand squeezes her tit, ruthlessly, harshly. His breath comes in sharp, hot bursts, as he rocks in a shocky, abortive rhythm into the curve of her hip. 

_Not gentle anymore, are you?_ she thinks viciously. _Vows are made to be broken, Jon Snow._

_Men are made to be broken._

She snakes her hand down, tugging impatiently at his breeches, slipping her hand in, gasping when she realizes how- "Gods, it's going to hurt me," she whispers, words spilling recklessly out of her mouth. "Jon," she moans, almost gleeful, rubbing her thumb across the slit, savouring the wetness that seeps, the thick, heavy weight of him, the way his teeth clamp brutally at her shoulder. "Oh darling, you're going to _hurt_ me."

* * *

 

_I would find grievous ways to have thee slain,_  
_Intense device, and superflux of pain;  
_ _Vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake  
_ _Life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache._

 

* * *

 

He wrenches her hand away, shoving it to the headboard. With an impatient snap of his wrist, he shakes out her thin gown, and begins to wrap it around her wrists. 

"What?" she starts to say, before her eyes flare open in panic. "No," she gasps. _"Don't."_

_"Yes,"_ he hisses, immutable rage stretched across his features, his eyes shuttered and hard. He kisses her, forcing her lips apart, laying siege to her mouth. Her arms are stretched upwards, high above her. "You need to bloody _stop._ " 

"Don't," she breathes, writhing when he releases her lips, trailing kisses down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, fingers pinching her tight nipples almost unconsciously. "Jon, _please,"_ she cries softly, salty tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. "Don't, don't, I _can't_ -"

"You can," he says, teeth grazing the undercurve of her heavy tits, his hand closing over her cunt, wetness trickling between his fingers as he pushes down with the heel of his hand against her clit. "Do you want me now, Sansa?" he asks, voice sibilant and dark, like chocolate trickling through her veins. 

He dips his fingers through her dark, auburn curls, stealing her wetness and painting it upwards in long, gleaming lines, across the flat plane of her stomach, past her ribs, drawing wet circles around her nipples, before his mouth closed over them again. 

"Do you want me still?"

Her fingers curl helplessly around the silk cords, pushing her body against his, grinding against the hard wedge of his thigh. 

"Yes," she sobs, defeated. _"Yes, yes, yes."_

* * *

 

_...all the broken kisses salt as brine_  
_That shuddering lips make moist with waterish wine,  
_ _And eyes the bluer for all those hidden hours  
_ _That pleasure fills with tears and feeds from flowers._

 

* * *

 

"Sansa, gods, you're so-"

He runs his hands down her sides, the sweet inward curve of her waist, the rounded lushness of her hips, breathing hotly where she's wet and salty and ready for him. 

Reining himself in, he strokes the slit, slipping in a finger, exhaling hard when it slips in, when she clenches hotter than fire around him. He slips in two, then three, thrusting slowly, inexorably, and her hips arch off the bed, her body a sinuous, trembling curve of desire. 

He slips his hands around her arse, nails digging into the soft, voluptuous flesh, tilting her up to suck the heat and slick from her cunt. 

_"Please,"_ she's keening from above him. _"Harder,_ oh gods, please Jon. Fuck me, _fuck me,_ God, I can't-"

"Come for me," he demands, slipping three fingers in, mercilessly, harshly and her body shakes violently, head thrashing to the side. 

With his other hand, he forces her jaw to stillness, smearing wet, salty kisses across her slack, open mouth, wrist thrusting into her with brutal abandon. 

"Come for me," he groans, voice hoarse and pleading, curling his fingers deep inside her. "Sansa, darling, _come_ for me."

* * *

 

_all thy beauty sickens me with love;  
_ _Thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair,  
_ _And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair._

 

* * *

 

She _screams_ , clenching down on him so hard, Jon imagines his fingers will snap right off, buried in her slick, burning cunt.

His body falls into hers, his face buried in her hair, his cock still hard against her stomach, his free arm stretching up to tangle with her fingers. 

Absently, he tugs at the knotted silk, rubbing her wrists when she is finally released. She breathes in deep, shuddering gasps, and Jon groans softly when she runs her nails down the length of his spine.

“Tell me, then,” she says, quiescent and replete, satisfaction melting her into languid, golden strands of honey. “Who is your king, Jon Snow? A merchant prince from Qarth? A slaver king from Astapor?"

He levers himself up, forearms bracketing her face. He smiles, a little sadly, and her heart twists painfully. She expected him to be- _less_. She never expected Jon Snow. She didn’t know men like him existed.

She still doesn’t expect the soft, yearning kiss he presses to her forehead, the way his thumb brushes the curve of her cheek. He gets up, sitting at the side, feet firmed planted on the ground, his back to her. 

He still hasn’t taken off his tunic, even, Sansa notes, mouth curling in displeasure. 

“There is only King I bow to,” he says, hoarsely, scrubbing the back of his neck. “The King in the North," he says, vowels curling over the words in strange, unfamiliar ways, "whose name is Stark."

Sansa chokes on her own breath, her body tensing in shock. “ _What_ ,” she breathes, but her throat closes down, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. She scrambles up, knees curling up to tuck under her, leaning to him as her breath falls sharper.

“What,” she tries again, but there’s a great roaring in her ears, like the ocean has come over the walls, drowning her breath, snatching the air right from her lungs.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, hands fisting on his knees, his head bowed. “I should not have delayed."

Jon exhales shakily. "Your brother lives. Your true brother. Brandon Stark is the Three-Eyed Raven, and he means to take back the North. To take back Winterfell."

“Why-” she spits out, her voice breaking over the words, her hands fisting painfully in the sheets. “Why are you telling me this?"

“Because it is the truth, my lady,” he says, so heart-breakingly gentle Sansa almost can’t feel the tears slip down her face. He cups her jaw in his hand, a quiet, young smile in his eyes. "The King wants to know - would you like to come home?"

* * *

 

_“Where will you go now?"_

_“Where will_ we _go. If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me."_

_“Where will we go?"_

_“I can’t stay here, not after what happened."_

_“There’s only one place we can go. Home."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This work contains sex between an underaged prostitute and her underaged client, incest between first cousins, dubiously consensual bondage and heavy BDSM overtones.  
>   
>  Work title from Bishop Briggs' "Dark Side."  
> Chapter title from Tom Speight's "My My My."  
> Quotes from 'Anactoria' by A. C. Swinburne.  
> End quote and series name from "Winds of Winter", Game of Thrones (Season 6), HBO.  
>  **Blanket Permission:** Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!  
>   
>  Shoutout to riahchan for calling it in the first fuckin' chapter. You go, dude.  
>   
> This series is essentially complete. There **will** be an epilogue, in time, along with a chapter for Arya and Bran, but I'm not sure when it'll be done, which is why I've reduced total chapters to just three, since the major story arc is complete. Until then, I just want to say - thank you for reading! All of you have been absolutely goddamn spectacular. Leave a comment to let me know what you thought.  
>   
>  xo, 95E

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me about jon snow, the nature of fandom, and how thoroughly fucking pointless d&d are on twitter and tumblr @dropofrum.


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